Heavy Metal Blues

It was an ordinary day. I remember the leaves were changing and there was a chill in the air as I walked home from the school bus stop. I opened the door and entered the kitchen. As my usual routine, I plopped my books down on the kitchen table, grabbed a drink from the fridge, and noticed my new magazine on the kitchen table. The magazine cover caught my attention right away. There were four women with long, stringy hair, wild make-up, and they were encased in leather and chains. The leader of the group was a blond. Her make-up was harsh, with sharp angles. I looked at the name of the band in the headline: “Mötley Crue.” I quickly turned to the article and began reading. To my surprise I read that they weren’t women at all! They were men and they sang songs like, “Live Wire” and “Looks that Kill.” I was in awe. I had never seen a music band like them. I listened to Duran Duran and Debbie Gibson and wore Jordache jeans and pink shirts with popped collars. I mean, the hardest music I had ever listened to was “Hungry Like the Wolf,” by Duran Duran. But, these guys wore women’s make-up and their hair was longer than most girls at school. So weird. So taboo. So awesome!

I just knew that my mom would never let me listen to their music, but I had to hear it. Somehow, I was going to have to convince my mom to buy me their new album; however, the title of the album was going to make the convincing damned near impossible to do. It was called “Shout at the Devil.” Could it get any worse? My mom was one of those moms that believed that K.I.S.S. stood for Knights in Satanic Service in the late 1970s’ KISS scare. I didn’t know how I was going to get her to do it. I could imagine her reply: “What!? That’s devil music! Are you crazy!” It seemed hopeless, but I was determined to try.

In the meantime, I began listening to the rock station on the radio, hoping to hear one of their songs. I discovered that I liked this stuff they called “heavy metal” a lot. I stopped listening to that “bubble gum” music and started listening to bands, such as, AC/DC, Pink Floyd, and Def Leppard. I started to dress differently. I wore black, rock-and-roll concert T-shirts and quit styling my hair before school. I began making new friends that listened to the same kind of music, cool friends. I was happier and more confident in myself.

About a month after my first encounter with heavy metal, I got the courage to ask my mom for the Mötley Crue album. I had discovered through a friend that the album title was not displayed on the all black cover. Piece of cake, right? It went something like this:

“Mom, I really want something bad and I don’t have enough money to get it. Will you

get it for me?” We were sitting on the couch watching television. I kept a close eye on her body language. There was the normal, deep intake of breath and the quick exhale through her nose that I was all too familiar with.

“What is it?” She asked.

“I want the new Mötley Crue album,” I gushed. “I know that it costs a lot, but I can try to get it at that trade in place.” The “Trade In Place” was what I called the store that you could trade in your cassette tapes and records for credit towards the purchase of new or used merchandise in the store. I waited for the usual, “No. We don’t have the money,” but to my surprise she said she would get it for me. I couldn’t believe it! She didn’t even ask what kind of music it was. I was home free!

That weekend my mom purchased the album for me without blinking an eye. When we got home, I excitedly ran to my room and placed the record on the turntable, put the needle down and listened to “Shout at the Devil” for the first time. I was lost in the sound of Vince Neil’s voice and Mick Mars’ guitar and just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, my mom barged into my bedroom, turned the record player off, and looked at me with fury in her eyes.

“I want the lyrics! Where are the lyrics?” She demanded. She ripped them out of my hands and read them.

“Oh, my God! These are satanic lyrics! You know you’re not supposed to listen to this crap!” She picked up the album cover. To my horror, she turned it toward me, shoving the album cover in my face.

“The pentagram! The pentagram is on the cover of this thing!” She screamed. I had not noticed the embossed emblem on the cover. I knew then, it was over. She took the record, the cover, the lyrics, and my broken heart to the wood stove in the living room. Without another word, she opened the stove door and threw them inside. She slammed the stove door shut and spun around to face me.

“I hate you! How could you do that?” I yelled. She looked at me and told me that it was for my own good. What did she know? I returned to my room and shut the door. I sat on the floor and defiantly listened to heavy metal music on the radio—at a low volume, of course. She may have burned the physical manifestation of heavy metal in my family’s wood stove, but she could never extinguish the heavy metal flame in my heart.